The Quarrel
FOR a while after Gerald had locked the door against his sister,
he paced up and down his room in a state of great excitement,
his heart filled with anger and bitterness.
It had not occurred to Mr. Willis to explain how he had become aware
that Gerald had been in the habit of borrowing Angel's pocket-money
when he had taken the boy severely to task upon the subject, and had
requested to be informed how the money had been spent. Gerald had
hesitated, and finally had said that he really did not know how the
money had gone, it had slipped through his fingers somehow; and, on
the spur of the moment, he had owned to an insatiable appetite
for sweetmeats and ices, artfully insinuating that the latter
delicacies were very dear. He had been ashamed of himself for thus
prevaricating, for though certainly he had spent a good bit at the
"tuck-shop," it was not there that he had parted with most of his
money; but he had felt that he never could own the whole truth.
He had listened patiently to all his father had had to say, and had
promised he would never borrow Angel's money from her again.
Mr. Willis had not scrupled to call his son's conduct both dishonest,
and dishonourable; and Gerald, though he could but admit the justice
of his father's anger, yet blamed Angel for having, as he considered,
brought about so much unpleasantness. By-and-by, however, his wrath
cooled down somewhat, and he began to feel a little uneasy at the
thought of the blow he had given his sister. He had never struck her
before; but then, as he quickly reminded himself, she had never
before told tales of him; and, after all, he had only slapped her
face; it was not his fist that had dealt the blow. Nevertheless,
he was perfectly aware that it had been a cowardly, cruel act
to strike a girl.
Presently he sat down on the edge of the bed, and fell to wondering
how Angel would act now. Would she go and tell their father how she
had been served? He hardly thought she would do that. A crowd
of memories of different occasions when she had shielded him from the
blame and punishments which would have been the inevitable results
of his misdeeds but for her interference, surged through his brain,
and reminded him how often she had been better to him than he had
deserved. And how had he treated her in return? Gerald's slumbering
conscience was slow to awaken; still, some knowledge of the
ingratitude and cruelty of his behaviour came to him then, as he
reflected how he had promised Angel solemnly that she should have
her eighteen pence returned to her that day, and she was naturally
disappointed that he had not kept his word.
He had reached this point in his meditations when he heard footsteps
on the landing; the following second there was a tap upon the door.
"Come in!" he cried, thinking Angel had come back to try and make
peace with him; then, remembering he had turned the key, he sprang
to his feet, unlocked the door, and opened it wide. It was not Angel,
however, whom he found outside, but his father.
"There was one thing I forgot to mention to you, Gerald," Mr. Willis
said, "and that was, that Angel did not tell me you were in her debt;
I ascertained the fact from Uncle Edward, who overheard you trying to
borrow money from her. I believe supper is ready, so you had better
come downstairs now, my son." And he laid his hand on the boy's
shoulder with a kindly pressure as he spoke.
"Yes, father," Gerald answered. "I must brush my hair and wash my
hands, then I shall be ready."
At that moment the supper bell rang, and bidding his son to be quick,
Mr. Willis went downstairs.
The boy was quite overwhelmed at the knowledge that he had misjudged
his sister, and now deeply repented the hasty blow he had given her
in his unbridled passion. He determined to ask her forgiveness the
first opportunity that offered, not doubting but that it would be
given him willingly and gladly. Angel was so fond of him, he
complacently told himself, that she would forgive him anything.
When he entered the dining-room, he found his sister already seated
at the supper-table with his father and uncle; he drew a breath of
relief as he recognized that she had not told of his treatment of
her. He slipped quietly into his accustomed place on the opposite
side of the table to Angel. The dining-room was dimly lighted,
so only Gerald's guilty eyes noticed that one of the little girl's
cheeks was crimson, although Mr. Willis and Mr. Bailey saw that she
had been crying, but they were not surprised at that, for they knew
how distressed she had been on her brother's account.
Gerald could not keep his gaze away from his sister's face; that
crimson check, which looked as though it might be smarting still,
was a silent reproach to him. He ate but little; in fact, no one
seemed to have an appetite that evening, and it was rather a relief
to all when the meal was over.
After supper Mr. Willis retired to his studio to search for a letter
he had mislaid; and Mr. Bailey sat down in an easy chair, where he
soon fell asleep, being tired after his walk. Then it was that Gerald
ventured to approach his sister, who was standing by the open window,
gazing out into the shadowy garden. The scent of nicotianas was
wafted towards her upon the cool, evening breeze, which fanned her
hot cheeks pleasantly. She gave a slight start when she became
conscious of her brother's proximity, and would have gone back from
the window if he had not laid a detaining hand upon her arm.
"Angel," he said, carefully lowering his voice so as not to disturb
Mr. Bailey, "I'm so sorry I hit you, I am indeed! I thought you had
been sneaking about me to father, and that riled me; but I know now
that it was Uncle Edward. I can't think why he need have interfered!"
he concluded in aggrieved tones.
Angel turned her head slowly and faced him. In the dim light he saw
that her countenance was quivering with some strong emotion; her eyes
were dry now, and there was a strange, hard glitter in them.
"Don't touch me!" she cried sharply, shaking off his hand from her
arm. "And I wish you'd leave me alone, and not bother me!"
"But I want to talk to you," he objected, surprised at her curt
words, so different from her usually gentle mode of speech. "I'm so
very sorry I struck you, Angel," he continued in a coaxing tone;
"won't you forgive me?"
"No," she responded, "I won't. Why should I? And I don't believe
you're sorry! I wanted to explain to you that I had not been telling
tales to father, and you wouldn't listen to me. Do you think I cared
for the money, except that I wanted to give Dora Mickle a present?
I'm not a sneak, and I'm not a coward like you are, or a—a
storyteller!" Angel was trembling with passion. She pointed to her
crimson cheek, and her voice trembled with indignation as she added
decisively, "No, I won't forgive you, I won't!"
"Oh, come, Angel, don't be nasty," he said soothingly; "it's not like
you to be that. You know I did not mean to hurt you. And I'm really
very sorry—very!"
"You're not!" she retorted. "You don't care a bit! I wish you'd go
away and leave me in peace!"
"I will—only say you forgive me first!"
"No; if I did say so, it would not be true. I don't forgive you.
You had no right to strike me, even if I had told tales of you
to father. No one but a coward would have done it. Do you think
either of the Mickle boys would dare to hit Dinah or Dora? Not they!
And they wouldn't want to! But you—"
Angel's voice ceased suddenly. She was actually too enraged
to proceed. Gerald was aghast at the resentment in her glance;
he looked at her with dismay. Was this his gentle, sweet-tempered
sister, who was regarding him with such hard, unforgiving eyes?
He was positively struck dumb with amazement.
Suddenly a sob broke from Angel's lips, which sound encouraged Gerald
to draw nearer; but she stepped back from him, and bade him keep his
distance.
"Don't come nearer to me," she said, with a bitter little laugh
that was full of pain; "how do I know but that you mean to strike me
again?"
"Oh, Angel, you know better than that!" he remonstrated. "I did it
in temper!"
"That's no excuse!"
"No, no, of course not; but do forgive me, and let us be friends
again. We never quarrelled like this before!"
"Well, it's not my fault that we've quarrelled now," she reminded him
significantly.
This perverse, stubborn Angel was not like his loving little sister
at all. He looked at her with pleading blue eyes, really anxious
to bring about a reconciliation.
"Let us kiss and be friends," he said, with his winning smile. "Come,
Angel, I know you mean to forgive me in the end!"
She deigned no reply, but turning abruptly away, left the room,
whilst he followed. When, however, he saw she was going to the
studio, he retraced his steps, and threw himself into a chair not far
from the one in which Mr. Bailey still slept. Suddenly his uncle gave
a loud snore, and awoke, exclaiming—
"Dear me, I think I must have been asleep!"
Ordinarily such a remark would have made Gerald laugh, but he now
vouchsafed no reply. He considered Mr. Bailey had done him
an ill-turn that day, and he was disinclined to converse with him.
"Where is Angel?" Mr. Bailey asked, looking around, and missing the
little girl.
"In the studio with father," was the brief response.
"Poor child, poor child! I was sorry to see her sad eyes and
tear-stained face at supper. Ah, Gerald, there are very few boys
who have such a loving little sister as you have!"
Gerald muttered something unintelligible; perhaps he thought he had
ill repaid Angel for her love. Seeing he did not wish to talk,
Mr. Bailey took up a newspaper and commenced to read. Presently Angel
returned to bid her uncle good-night. He kissed her with great
affection, and after saying good-night, added his usual "God bless
you, child!" The little girl scarcely heeded the words this evening,
so preoccupied was she with her own thoughts. She neither spoke
to nor glanced at Gerald, who, however, got up and followed her
out of the room and upstairs.
"Aren't you going to say good-night to me, Angel?" he asked
reproachfully.
She turned as she opened the bedroom door and looked at him as she
replied coldly—
"Oh yes! Good-night, Gerald."
"Say you forgive me," he pleaded; "do, dear!"
But she shook her head decidedly, and, entering her room, shut the
door in his face. He stood outside for a few minutes, thinking she
would perhaps come out presently and make friends with him; but as
the door remained closed, he went away, much disturbed in mind at his
sister's conduct.
Angel, having quickly undressed and said her prayers, which were
merely vain repetitions that night, jumped into bed, and lay thinking
gloomily of the events of the last few hours. She recalled the look
of passion she had seen on her brother's face when he had struck her,
and told herself she never, never could forgive him that blow. She
was certain there was not the least spark of affection in his heart
for her. He only treated her well when he wanted her to do something
for him. He did not really love her. All this she kept repeating
to herself over and over again; and her anger against him did not
soften into better or kinder feelings to-night, on the contrary,
she nursed the resentment which the blow he had struck her had
planted in her heart, and exaggerated every little failing of his
which she had regarded as trifling before.
How slowly the time crept on as she lay awake. She heard Mrs.
Vallance and Polly ascending the back stairs, and a short while later
her father and uncle bade each other good-night on the landing
outside her door. The hall clock struck eleven!—twelve!—and still
Angel tossed restlessly about, her mind too disordered to admit
of her sleeping. A feeling of utter desolation crept over her as she
thought that, in all probability, she was the only member of the
household who was awake; a sense of intense loneliness occupied her
sore heart; she found no consolation in prayer as she usually did,
not then realizing, poor child, that her unforgiving spirit stood
between her and God; and, at last, she indulged in a fit of weeping,
and finally sobbed herself to sleep.
Meanwhile, Gerald was lying awake too, thinking uneasily of his
quarrel with his sister. Never had he known her so apparently
hard-hearted before; certainly never had he begged for her
forgiveness in vain until to-night. "It was cruel and wicked of me
to hit her," the boy acknowledged to himself, "but she might have
believed I was speaking the truth when I told her I was sorry.
I might have known she wouldn't have sneaked to father about me.
She was never a tell-tale. Oh, dear, how frightened I was when father
asked me what I had been doing with my money! I suppose it was wrong
to deceive him, but what could I do? I did hope to be able to pay
Angel that eighteen pence to-day. If only I had won that bet! I've
half a mind not to bet any more; but then, I must pay Hope what I owe
him, and I must get the money somehow."
Gerald sighed, and wished regretfully he had never been tempted
to bet at all, and what with the thought of his quarrel with his
sister and his other difficulties, he was quite as long in getting
to sleep as Angel was, so that it was past midnight before either
of the young people at Haresdown House obtained any rest that night.